Across the Wall

Roy Lichtenstein

Across the Wall

It's the Wall
That says it all
Grey, dark, wired, shut off-

And we behind blocked off windows
Like the denizens of a cursed castle.

We wondered how the Sun
Stopped shining on our side-

We wanted
For a place in the sun
And being unblocked.

Plate glass shatters well
Into harmless pebbles
We know
They make it like that
No shards-

But in East Germany
They only had the old kind
That you can't see
Before it cuts through your jugular.

Getting across that Wall of fear
You had to be sheared off
Like a butcher's abortion-

Because if you did-
You had to be torn out of a nurturing womb
That you knew well in the gloaming
And flung out like bleeding offal
To pollute the sunny side.

What could they possibly see
In a penniless refugee
Except unwanted trouble?

Know that it is very bad to be less
Even less
Least-
But with so many promises for pillows.

But we did have for plot
One stained truth
To repeat after ourselves-

If you fly, I fly with you
If you grow, I grow too.

It meant nothing
If you stayed on our side of the Wall
But it gave us hope
And made us smile.

We had heard
Across the Wall
The sunlight was strong

Besides it always glowed
From our side-

Maybe we could
Will
Energy
To harness

We thought-

And gallop to our purpose
Straight through that Wall
Like antimattering miracles!

Maybe we could bound over hedges
That only posed
As Walls
And what can Stasi watchtowers
Do to celestials?

On that grey side
We knew all about how to
Stop dead
And turn immortal.
So how could they catch a running immortal?

But like a guilty secret
We grew that Wall together
Erich and all us friends
To protect ourselves-
We grew it
Brick by brick
To shut ourselves in.

And then it came down
Like Honecker's pants
And we were just as free
As Charlie and Coca Cola.

And now we're out here
And Out Here is part of There!

We eat sausages, drink beer,
Drive BMWs with spin

We pay with plastic and Euromoney
Being rich is no sin

We spend time, make music
Walk now and then on stilts-
And look across that phantom Wall
Without the slightest bit of guilt.


9th November 2009
20th anniversary of the day the Berlin Wall came down.

Gautam Mukherjee

Copyright, Gautam Mukherjee 2009

Echo but it's ridiculous

Clover Box

Echo but it's ridiculous

That face was thinner
It was tight
With features
uncluttered
if stupid.

That belly was a stomach
not a disobedient overhang-
those arms were sinuous-
Not sticks borrowed from Olive Oyl.

it's ridiculous how
Every one of your vices
Etched themselves on you
Scoring lines
blighting your beard white
Stooping you
When you intended no particular respect
For anyone.

Like Killjoy the vandal-
Carving I was here
I was there
I will remain
Gouging and scooping
But boo to you
You old ghost.

Old faces look manic animated
But you must expect consequences
Like a vintage car being taxed
You expect the oil to blow-
Veins to pop-
Candles to gutter

It's ridiculous
You can't be hearing ticking
Bombs, time,imagination,
Hell what's the difference-
It's Heavens every time.

Mutter mutter mutter,
Talking to yourself is good when you're old
You hear perfectly-
You like what you hear and like what you don't.

But imagine muttering at people
Complaints,longings,bewilderment
Why would it matter
About you-

That you carry these extra enthusiasms in you still?
Silly old fellow.

But tell yourself good things anyhow
Appreciate yourself because no one else will
Shake your head at how clear it all seems
Now-

When it is much too late-
And your life events are a bore
What a joke to have kept you up nights smoking.

Grace your thoughts-
Clothe it in the shreds of your old self
Ignore the frays and tatters
Because you can see them anew anyhow.

You may have turned into a cardboard box do you know?
To pack things or find meaning in-
Not quite like Kafka's giant spider
But
Either metamorphosis
Would have delighted you at ten
When everything is naturally delightful-

You cadged the big Carnation condensed milk box
Remember
From the back of the provision shop
For your den then-
And now you've turned into one yo'self!

You've worn so thin and flappy
And become boxy too-
And yet no one wants to huddle inside
For a giggle.

But its still free
And freeing-

When no concrete can hold you
And the brown paper thing metamorphosis
You've become-

Corrugated, edges soggy,
Dead as a pulped tree
Heavy with nothing
but facsimilies
Of your life


It still makes a cozy home.
And you're hopeful
Like a lover awaiting
Call mail or text
Waiting for the huff,
The puff,
To breeze into you
Puffing out your sail
Or even
Sailing your upended boxy boat
All the way to the sea.


4th November 2009
Gautam Mukherjee

Copyright Gautam Mukherjee, 2009.

Come closer to wet my lips

William Blake- Jacob's Ladder


Poetry


Come closer to wet my lips

What’s scaring you rigid my love?
Is it the thundering rain in the forest?

What’s making you hold your breath?

Is it a deep thirst?
A parched thing
You cannot quench?

That noise you hear-
Are the Masters and Slaves calling to each other
From the water’s edge.

That river is Styx, The Jordan
It’s next to Jacob’s Ladder
And that poor unemployed sweet chariot

All this is for those who can see.

They call to each other
Kindred spirits mauling
Each other for all time-

But what's it to you
You don't want to go.

See how you cling my love?
So hold fast-

Those shots you hear
Are barking deer and their sighing after-
That laughter-
Is the mad call of jackals.

That disturbance in the thicket
Is owl flap in the dark.

There is no one with a scythe in the shadows
That sharp moonlight
On the courtyard
Is clean.

There are no pounding hooves
coming for you across the cobbles
That is blood in your temples
Yes but
No one’s coming to get you!

What you hear may be rumblings
Just me stumbling-

That crackling is not from a fire
No blaze here-
No pyre.

That tumbling pine
Is not going to a carnage
To build it higher

And that pine scent-
Is not from its destruction.

You can pull this fear apart my love
And in its folds
Find bliss.

There is no call to hurtle
Twisting around corners
Myrtle Myrtle-
Your dead grandmother named you.


You can put your small hand
On my heart
See-

There is nothing
Nothing breaking out of its cage
Beating steady as a sage.

You can make it pound Myrtle
Anytime,tonight-

But come to me together
And come closer to wet my lips.

20th October 2009
Gautam Mukherjee

Copyright Gautam Mukherjee 2009

All things are not for keeping

Poetry

All things are not for keeping

All things are not for keeping
Few things belong-

All things are not for touching
Out in the world-

Who is great?
What is small?
When is it a solid wall?

Me, I just want to know-
When this postman can call.

October 14th, 2009
Gautam Mukherjee

Copyright Gautam Mukherjee 2009

Console Me!

Roy Lichtenstein- Green Face

Poetry


Console Me!


Console me I have sinned beyond the pale
In bramble bushes wildwoods dripping rain
Cascading flowers junipers flood my mind
Who can see that noose down the line?

Console me it was a wicked deed
Winged archers rode with arrows of naked steel
My heart wept heavy when I heard you call
This rankling thought years later still appalls

Console me when dew thoughts catch the night
In moon glow aching nerve me to a fight
Lax flesh begs off by going limp
Bobbing strength and faux pas’ grown to imps
Thing in time done now recall a scent
Of Narciss bloom that never really went!

Silver furrows slick and dry on cheek
Crying out for phantoms to find and wipe and seek.

Console me when the shudders come on deep-
It’s a way to climb, a yawning kind of leap-
That umbilical cord still not cut away
In windy rain I can hear it sway
Ghostly white, moaning as it whips
That fruit of ruin, a wolf among the sheep-

It’s leaping hurdles hurtling through the night
Catching it’s breath before it heaves to sight!

Console me, I need help to fight this fright-
This flower smelling dew of still-papered night
I raise a cornucopia and drink a draught of dreams
On my stony perch entombing remembered screams.

Console me, I have sinned beyond the pale
In bramble bush, in heather moors, in rain-

A cloud now clears and I can see
A spectre raises and legends are set free
The stories grow and I watch them bloom
The clouds come back and hide them in the gloom.

II

Cremate me on the mountain top
Plant saplings in my name-

Whisper your forgiveness
And burn away my shame-

A fire to our memories
Shorn pine and sandal paste-

And when your face is hot and flushed
Get up and walk away.


14th October 2009
Gautam Mukherjee

Copyright Gautam Mukherjee 2009

Welcome Back!

Short story

Welcome Back!


It is stamped on the face. Shakal shareef! You can tell just by looking at someone. I can. I can tell rich, poor, thief, murderer, cheat, power man, by just looking at face, and maybe also from walk, talk, clothes, rings, bags, necklace, such things. How is the smell? Smell is very important. And reputation. Can be scared of people you can lift and throw. Sometimes scared of even cripple fellows in wheelchair. And sometimes, fat people you cannot shift.

But when someone look at me he think here is a dukhi bunda who has been knock around a lot and truth be told wallahi is looking like he like to be knocked around some more. So why not oblige and give him a new kick. But maybe they don’t see like this. They maybe see a tough guy instead to give respect and take care near about because sure I give more beatings than I take in my life.

And so who knows, it might be, like rubber stamp on my face also. This man will beat you if you don’t do what he wants. Both ways it is true. Either side entrance and open like a bamboo flute and all places, upside, downside, seaside, backside, everywhere this man is tough guy.

Actually both are me, one part crying inside my chest like a baby from when I actually was hungry baby, and the other with all markings and nishani. Face scar, body welt, as girl say “on my adult pelt” because she like to play with my markings in the bed. But otherwise, the public can see some marks but not me unless I look in the mirror. And they see one fighting man to make pulp. So watch out. Danger man. Do not disturb.

And both these fellows live next to each other inside my skin. And till recently, before the girl found me a PG room in high-rise flat in Colaba with separate entrance so she could stay all night.

Before my two fellows lived in a chawl in Gamdevi. Lived meaning where I kept my mat. No, not like exercise mat, but cotton mattress, bori bistar type. I roll up and keep under one table in the day, and spread it in room with five other people if raining or out in the veranda if good weather. I have nothing else.

But now my expense high. I not steal now but much spending and spend I must because I can’t let girl spend for me all the time. How does it look? So now lunch dinner movie ghoomna ghamna, taxi, rent. I am now ex-thief. I am ex-collection agent also. I am now mechanic in garage but girl wants me to work in office of advertising as model and also model coordinator if I promise not to fuck the models. I promise. She say she will arrange. Who wants fuck me. I have no knowledge. No money. Only this one pari likhi mad girl.

An ex-thief is working in a garage of thieves. If you want to make money there you have to cheat the customers. Break it some part and then buy it local at half price and charge the car owner full price for original part and write false bills and pay the supervisor a little to keep quiet. All thieves but not called thief. And car itself never fix too good so that it comes back and we say that part which I fixed is good but now new this part is bad.

So before forget want tell you about inside my skin, in my head and heart, the crying baby and the fighting man mixed up so much. Too much. You can’t make out which is which and what is what. You can’t get it out because you can’t remember how it got in. And everything is sealed. No joints, no rivets. Only hole for mouth, eyes, ears, nose and those other parts underneath.

And because it is two opposite things, it build steam inside. That is why the bhai gave me the work of collection. Itna gussa? Accha hai. “Beat someone everyday and guaranteed you feel better,” he laugh. I did a lot of that collection work for him and everybody would give me respect.

But this girl here now. I can’t tell her I beat people for collecting rent money. Cannot reveal about thief. So I tell bhai and he sent me to the garage of his friend. “See and if you don’t like it come back to me”. That bhai is really like true brother. He is taking his pick from the young rundis just come new send to him straight but bhai or no bhai you have to please the chokris if you want them to be good to you. They like it when you give money but like it more when you listen to them. Importance. Good for sex.

But right now it looks like my luck is changed or I am dreaming even in the daylight. Think of this girl. High class. No unpur rundi. Never even been to places I come from go to. So why she is acting like she is engaged to make marriage with me?

Suddenly, a man whose mother can’t remember properly when he was born is having a big birthday party. She is doing all this. Why for? I am not habitual for so much taarif pampering in social public way. In the arms of a simple woman in the dark yes, but out in front, with so much high society, no, never before in this life. Girl is not ashamed. I am.

Party can only be full if her friends come because mine are more in lock up, jail, these places. I don’t think I’m worth to show off. I look like street person with new clothes. I am a street person with new clothes. She make me buy because she pay anyway. She choose pant, shirt, jeans, shoe, get Rs. 750 haircut, Rs. 1000/- to clean nail, hand, feet. I am ready for dulha but I refuse chest hair shaving like Sharukh Khan.

I don’t know why she change me so hard because I still look like better stand outside
don’t come inside. But girl very happy. She live with me in Colaba room and wants everybody to know. This party, what it is for? I am afraid to go. I might get angry if rich people insult. I am pick up from street and they will see. They will laugh.

But this girl, who is she tumbling into my life and chipkoing there. I am not used to having things so easy. Someone sending for spy? Why? Nothing to hide. Ex-thief, ex-collection agent. Garage mechanic in garage of thieves. But cannot catch. Not educated but smart.

Party is in penthouse of my girl building in Sindhi businessman house. More crystal glass, less gold and silver. All girls with short dress and creamy thigh. English music very loud. Big drinks table. English food. I am happy I don’t have to talk. Sea view but no smell from high up. Dance floor with light red, green, blue, strobe. Kissing. Feeling. Bumping. Going together couple to bedroom. Girl took me into bathroom. All bedroom occupied. Standing up for happy birthday. Not so difficult. Back to Colaba room before morning but girl said she stay back to help host. I don’t know more till landlady tapping on door. Phonecall to her house. My phone on silent. Inspector Shinde. Friendly like. Call me to Crime Branch.

When I go he beat me. Punch in the kidney. Kick in the leg. “Saala kanha chupaya hanh?” Jewels. From the party. I did not take. So now I understand about the girl. My reputation. Her profit. Shakal se kuch nahi pata lagta.

I go back to Gamdevi. In the evening we sit outside looking at wall. Rain pattern. Election poster. No paint. Little breeze. No electricity. "Arre you come back? Good. Gamdevi best for you. Tu aa gaya saala. Marwah ke aaya? Koi Nahi. Welcome back!"

(1,352 words)

7th October 2009
Gautam Mukherjee
Copyright, Gautam Mukherjee 2009

GEOCOUNTER

free counter

See You At Auntie's Joint

See You At Auntie’s Joint


The photographs along the wall lead you into the heart of the homeliness. Here, that’s a Catholic “confirmation” picture of an angelic child with side-parted and neatly combed hair, that’s a college graduation picture with everyone in square hats and black gowns, that one’s obviously a family group gathered for a wedding with all the men in suits, another is of a company of men in uniform, and here, some studio formals, angled and lit and timeless.

This is the charm of the place. Being able to come in for a drink into Auntie’s home like this. And the brew might be illicit but it's safe. And there are fresh snacks all the time. Little boys in shorts and sweaty singlets run up the wooden steps from the alley below and along the veranda with papad now, chana then, and sometimes fried Kingfish or shrimp in sal-leaf
katoris from the Sardar’s tandoori stand at the mouth of the alley.

The serving, coming in and out of curtained off back room with glasses and soda and drink, is done by Auntie’s “niece” in the buttock hugging skirt. She isn’t really her niece but calling her that keeps the drunks from making passes. Filoo’s very good for business because looking at her makes you thirsty. And she doesn’t mind being looked at even though you’re dying to pat her on that butt. Filoo must know that also and about the other fantasies she inspires. But what we can say for sure is she definitely doesn’t mind you looking because she’s always smiling back.

The servings come in nips- those quarter bottles that hold about 175 ml. and encourage you to finish it at the rate of a drink each. So four drinks with a friend would account for a bottle. It is very hard not to get drunk at Auntie’s.

We sit on little wooden stools and drink off one placed in the middle. It is the only way to accommodate the clientele in the tiny front room with the pictures and the spillover on part of the narrow veranda outside. At a pinch, you could stand up and rearrange things quite easily. Especially when there is a runner down the alley with news of a police raid.

“You can imagine my plight”, says a podgy chap in a bush shirt at my right elbow, wagging his eyebrows. And his friend on the stool opposite nods in rapt comprehension. “No more than a little girl”, he continues, and I suddenly rear back because I don’t want to eavesdrop on a tragedy. “Snaps, snaps everywhere of her family, her wedding, her husband, but her hands,” and he strokes his podgy thigh.

Filoo comes though the curtain to flash her smile and tight buttocks at us. The joint is filling up. More glasses and nips for her to bring. More toing and froing for us to watch. More voices and laughter. Warmth suffuses my papad.

“Not dead a week mun”, drifts to my ear next. Oh God! “You have to feel my shock. Also joy, yes, definitely, can’t tell lies. I was very happy I tell you. A little humanity. Caring for each other. Comforting each other. What’s wrong? You can’t condemn it,” and my podgy neighbour makes this little hugging motion for his friend.

"Crying out for him she was obviously and I was not there at all. I mean my sitting with her, holding her, didn’t matter, didn’t matter one bit; she was mourning Him,” said with emphasis and a glance heavenwards, but he holds out his sly podgy hand for his friend to slap.

Filoo smiles at me going past and so I have to order another nip. “It is just a moment of human weakness. That’s all. For her I am actually nothing.” But you did alright for being nothing my podgy friend, didn’t you?

“I met her today again outside my building. Means, saw her. Wished her of course. Blushing. Pretty as a picture. So good to see. You can imagine my plight”.

But that’s the drink talking all by itself. It does that. It always takes you to “Rewind” and then, what else, it takes your podgy finger to “Play”!

(699 words)

6th October 2009
Gautam Mukherjee

Copyright Gautam Mukherjee 2009.